


Kisses like snowflakes

by TheSweetestThing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, I suck at dialogue, but I write good descriptions? so it evens out, still I hate the dialogue scenes in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4791443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is not a prize, and will not pay for her brother's mistakes. If Robb dared to marry who he desired, why not Sansa?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kisses like snowflakes

**Author's Note:**

> So this came from nowhere as I was writing another Sansa and SmallJon fic I'll hopefully one day get around to posting. This is clearly inspired by Mary Tudor and Charles Brandon, who got married for love without Mary's brother Henry VIII's permission and faced his wroth.

Her toes flit through the damp grass glistening in the sluggish sunrise, loose skirts swirling around her ankles as she grips tight to her lover's hand and trips down the well-worn path through the wood. His whispers dance on the delicate skin of her neck and the crown of daises on her forehead drip down and tangle in her hair.  Thorns scratch the soft flesh of her neck and she ducks her head down with a hushed giggle as they slope off the trail, early morning sunshine flashing through the thick leaves above.

Lush dark green leaves, even with the scent of autumn hanging heavy within the air - glittering frost skirts the edges of tree trunks and spider webs gleam silver, but it is early yet, and Sansa's fingers are not cold, her entire body is not flinching from the coolness on sweat dappled skin for her partner is forever-warm. He leaks his warmth from his hand to hers, and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are so beautifully bleary Sansa's heart melts, and his secret smile only she knows flits on his weathered face.

She will not regret this morning, this moment, for as long as she lives.

* * *

“I am not a prize Robb.” She tells her brother, voice tinged with gentle dismay, for she truly thought he would be better then the men down at Kings Landing who sought only to have her for her last name. They are stood toe to toe practically, and Sansa believed she knew her brother so well.

Her arrival back with her family was not what she thought it would be. 

Her eyes identical to his well with tears as her brother’s lips move silently, trying to form words of explanation. Sansa sucks in a breath and moves away from his touch, his outstretched fingers clasping only air, and her woollen skirts swirl around her ankles as she strides to the other side of the tent away from him and his sick ideas. 

"Sansa," An agonised whisper, and she cannot bear to look at her brother's face, for she loves him so and will do anything for him - except this. "The Freys are-"

 "I don't want to marry a Frey." She says the words forlornly at first before spitting them in fury, welcoming the anger that flickers deep in her bones for had she not suffered enough? Robb was not there, Mother was not there when Ilyn Payne shoved Father down and cut off his head, and they did not have to see his head and everyone else from their household on pikes, and they did not get beaten bloody by the Kingsguard for no reason at all.

“I am not a bargining chip!” She cries, throat throbbing with unshed tears. “It seems I am only important to you when calculating which Frey will gain you the most it seems. I am not a  _prize,_ I have feelings too!” Her voice catches and Robb’s face crumples.

“Sansa-”

"It is  _your_ fault you broke the betrothal and I will not be the consolation gift."  She draws herself up, tilts her chin in the air. and Sansa has never thought of herself as defiant before now. “I will not.”

She leaves the tent before her brother can word a rebuttal, tent flaps shuddering in her abrupt exit. Her breath is choking in her throat, but she somehow feels alive, knuckles stretched tight and she swallows thickly as tears prickle her eyes. She sets her jaw and picks up her skirts and walks away from her brother, her King. 

* * *

_I am not a prize._

It reverberates in her skull as she kneels down in the Godswood, kneecaps damp in the dew drenched wildflowers. It is a beautiful dawn, a golden cusp hovering on the horizon reflecting on the tiny trickle of streams nearby. The light spirals rainbows before Sansa's eyes, and this is a serene place, one of renowned beauty unmarred by war, and as the breath puffs past her lips in small white clouds she gazes up at the weirwood and believes the sad face to be smiling at the pair. 

Her husband to be adjusts his position beside her, hair mussed from his thick fingers running through it, and he is windswept and flushed, and Sansa believes him to be beautiful. He asks her if she is sure, and Sansa's heart thrums with satisfaction that her choice of man puts her feelings before his own, always. Sansa takes a deep breath, savouring the clean, fresh air on her cheeks, the redwoods and elms rustling in the breeze that lifts strands of her hair to swirl around her shoulders, and she nods. She has never been surer of anything, she thinks. Certainly not during her time in Kings Landing, when every thought had to be assessed thrice before she dared to speak. She speaks the vows in a quiet, strong voice, and her partner does the same, his Northern accent thicker then ever in his gruff nervousness. 

The man beside her unclasps his cloak from his neck in one fluid movement, the soft wool scratching Sansa's cheek as he gently removes the velvet one around her shoulders. He asks her again if she is sure, and this man of hers is ever considerate of her, and she turns to gaze at him, trace her fingertips on one rough cheek, smile softly as he inclines his head closer. He sweeps his cloak over her shoulders, and Sansa stares at the sigil -  _her_ sigil now - upon it.  The roaring giant breaking its chains, and she feels kinship warm within her as her lips move softly to prayers Jon whispers beside her. His hand is ever so gentle within hers despite its callouses, and she has never felt braver, disobeying rules so.

If Robb dared to marry who he desired why not Sansa? She has no marriage pact formally decided upon and drawn up, and Sansa's fate will not be ruled by men any longer as if she has no feelings or opinions. As if she were nothing more then a toy to be taken and disregarded at will, all because she was a Princess and fertile and miraculously still a maiden after her time spent as a hostage with the enemy. She has done her duty, in everything. Even whilst in Kings Landing as a ward of the crown she was dutiful, and she has suffered enough for it. Arya acted out every day, surely Sansa has done enough good for her to be forgiven? She does it for love, only the love she has craved ever since Prince Joffrey first set eyes on her those dreadful days ago. She thought her song was over, but it turns out the melody only had to be uncovered, the first rough verses crossed out and discarded. She can start anwew, and renewal feels ripe in the air, the way the autumn berries begin to turn on the branches nearby. 

Sansa closes her eyes, savouring the moment as her eyelashes brush her cold cheeks. Someday, she would tell her children that some stories were true after all, and while a Princess could save herself she could still be protected by a giant that struck fear into the stomachs of knights if she wished. Birdsong is honey-sweet in the shell of Sansa's ears, and their rosy morning cannot last much longer. but for now the peace and serenity calms the storm in Sansa's stomach and her head is filled with naught but the love she has always desired. How many moons had it been, before she trusted the man beside her? Too many.

"Sansa." His voice is jagged with emotion, and she opens her eyes slowly, one at a time, and her lips turn upwards when he delicately places a loose strand of her hair behind one ear. So huge those hands, but so tender and cautious. His arms encircle hers, and she leans into his warm body, and when SmallJon Umber kisses her his beard tickles her chin and she lets out the tiniest giggle. 

_I am not a prize._

* * *

He is the complete opposite in every way of the people she had encountered down South, and she loves him for it. He is Robb's fiercest friend and staunchest ally, a second shadow to her brother wherever he goes. When Sansa is delivered back to them courtsey of Jaime Lannister, he along with her Mother and brother are the first to greet her and welcome her back to the Riverlands, back  _home._  Sort-of. 

He always asks her opinion on matters with a quiet rumative tone, staring with eyes that see too much when the talk of Lannister's fill her with dread and all she can see are memories of Father and the way they flung him down and chopped off his head. Mother believes her to be too young to talk of such things, Robb pressing her for details of the Lannister's plans even though she knows naught and Sansa is quick to say she encouraged King Joffrey to engage in every battle. SmallJon only asks her her thoughts on the matter and if she is alright in that quiet husky voice of his, for, as he points out to his King, she has her own revenge to seek now. It is not much, but to be looked at with kind eyes and supported when she dares to voice her thoughts means everything to a girl who had at one point had nothing. He is ten years her elder and handsome in a rugged way, a  _Northern_ way and he reminds her of home, of moors and snow and bare simplicity. His anger is pure ice, his thoughts always aired with a refreshing bluntness, but he never directs his fury towards her - only to the people who did her harm. 

He is undeniably wild, from the way he wields his sword and carries himself, the beard that could rival his Father's, but he is a restrained wildness. He is tame when off the battle-field but that doesn't mean he isn't always alert and on-guard, one hand forever near the sword hung at his hip. More subdued and wary then his Father, who is loud and brash and fearless. SmallJon is fearless too, Sansa believes, but he is quick to smile despite his fierceness, and many times Sansa has been caught unawares by his small contagious grin. 

She likes how he is quiet and calm and patient, loyal and levelheaded and brave, and she keeps waiting for him to do something terrible - but he never does.

* * *

They all call him SmallJon, but to her he is always  _Tall_ Jon, for she has to crane her neck just to meet his gaze and peer into his face. He is long and broad, an imposing figure of a man, and she curls a lock of his thick dark brown hair between her fingers as he kneels to take off her slippers. He has delicate fingers despite their size, and when he kneels down before her with his head between her legs and soulful eyes bright she smiles at the role reversal with her looking down on him for once. 

"Robb will understand." So confident she is, so bonny and bright with love, pearl teeth glinting and auburn hair brushed to perfect glossy curls rippling down her back. Her legs kick back and forth swishing her skirts and she giggles like a child when he captures one slim foot and rubs his thumbs along the sole.

"I hope so." SmallJon grimaces. "Or else I shall be heading straight to the block like Karstark."

"No." Sansa says, and her face puckers with determination, for she would not let another man she loved have his head cut off before her. She leans in to him, the flat planes of her stomach pressing against his bowed head, lips brushing his cheek as she whispers. "He may banish us to the Free Cities and I shall still be happy, for I will be with you." 

He looks up at her, chapped lips parted and thick eyebrows pulled together in sincerity. His hands reach up to cradle her flushed cheeks and she sinks into his grasp, surrendering herself willingly. "I swear to you Sansa, I shall protect you till the end of my days."

"That is all I ask." She whispers, pink lips trembling. "And to love me, if you want."

"You know," He rumbles in her ear, a growl that makes a pleasant shiver run through her body and she looks up under her eyelashes at him. "You know I do."

* * *

“I can be your protecter Princess, if you desire it.”

Sansa looks up at him unsure, fingers stilling from where they fumbled with nerves outside Robb's tent. He had followed her out, shadowing her every move at Robb's nod. The Umber heir inclines his head, thick shaggy hair brushing his shoulders and his eyes narrow as he comes to a stop before her. She is eclipsed in his huge shadow, dappled in grey and black, and she licks her lips nervously.  

“You must needs have someone to protect you." One huge calloused hand hovers near her as if to catch her hand and hold it, or spirit her away perhaps. "King Robb does not think of these things, but my cousin was captured by wildlings before I was even born - and she was not a maiden Princess proven fertile.”  

“I am sure if my brother believes there to be any danger he will make sure I am well protected.” She stares at him warily, for what if the one she needed protected from was him?

But no, Robb trusts him, and Sansa has to believe that a man Robb places so much faith in is good, kind. Chivalrous in a Northern way - for he was certainly no Knight in shining armour and silks, with perfume on his body and roses thrown at his feet by admirers. Perhaps that were better; she was done with knights and falsehood now. He still stands before her, does he not? After weeks and moons in Robb's service, fighting by his very side killing all those Lannister's...  

“I can serve you better than well.” He promises, and his brown eyes crinkle in the corners when a soft smile grazes his lips. "I think a giant is a suitable replacement for a direwolf, yes?”

* * *

His kisses taste of mint, and his beard scratches her chin sure to be red later, and she splays her hands on the loose cotton undershirt on his chest and gazes up at him, breathless from his lips upon hers. Lips that now ever so gently brush over her neck, her collarbone sending shivers down the entire length of her body. Her mind is heady from the perfumed candles that flicker and ripple on the side-table, winter apple and vanilla. It clings to her clammy skin, and she stares up at him blissfully as he _stops_ kissing her and pulls back, uncertaintly in his dark eyes.     

"Sansa-" 

"Shhsh." She strokes his cheek with a soft croon, eyelashes fluttering with increasing anticipation of his mouth mapping every inch of her body. She is a drowsy creature of desire, limpid and soft-eyed and burning lips from his touch. "I want this. I want  _you._ "

"I should bl-" He presses his lips together in a self-contained chuckle, shaking his head so his thick, shaggy hair flops over her fingers twined tight around the back of his neck. "I should hope so, for you married me." 

She smiles up at him, at his admirable effort to contain his curses around her. "I meant, I want to consummate this marriage." 

He frowns immediately, the lines on his face deepening. "Sansa you don't-"

"I do." She whispers. "I want to. If we go through with this our marriage can't be annulled and besides that - I want to - to lay with you as husband and wife do." A hot flush rises on her cheeks. "I want to have your children." 

She can imagine them, with his stature and eyes but Sansa's red hair. She can call them Eddard and Bran and Rickon, and she can see them so  _clearly,_ running and playing witha little girl brown-haired and brown eyed forever chatty and wild. 

"Well there's only one way for that to happen." Jon says amiably, but his hand still squeezes tight, and his eyes seek hers. She could drown in his eyes, they were so deep. "You're sure?"

She nods emphatically and rises up to press her lips against his.  

"Moon tea." He says, voice muffled and ragged as she drags him down on top of her, craving the protection his huge form gave her. "You're too young."

Her tremulous answer is quickly swept away in a gasp when his tongue laps her collarbone. 

* * *

She sits forlornly, feet dragging through the grass that tickles her ankles, brushes against her thick velvet dress coloured in Tully red and Stark grey. From her vantage point she can see the whole camp spread before her like a kingdom, and no wonder Robb has little time for her now unless it is information about the Lannister's, or fending off marriage proposals from a number of men. She sees Robb's gaze on her more then once and she knows he's planning something in his head and he _knows she knows._ Mother suffocates her with her attention, and sometimes she feels like she can't breathe. 

Smalljon's hovering nearby, but she cannot bring herself to be scared. Instead she is reassured; she knows he won't let anyone disturb her when she's like this aside from his King or his Lady Mother. Her sigh is swallowed by the wind, chest unfurling for fresh air, and she is so very weary of war. She just wants to go home. The soldiers around camp, even Mother and Robb look at her differently, and she desperately wants something of her old life back, something that hasn't changed. Sansa plucks a blade of grass and plays with it, shredding it into pieces. 

“You all think I'm weak. You think I should have fought.” 

Her hair swirls around her face and brushes against her cheeks in the breeze, and she tucks a curl behind one cold ear. She is not blind to the looks her brother's company cast her, the way they treat her as if she is a delicate doll, as if her skin were porcelain and fragile. She is pure steel now, for nobody else has endured what she has, and yet these men and Mother too deem her weak. How? They do not know she was beaten almost daily and survived - and if she told them that she is sure she would only get more sympathy and loaded looks. 

"I don't think so." SmallJon stands nearby, one hand on the hilt of his sword as always, and she turns to stare at him with narrowed eyes for his japes did not amuse her.  

“My Lady, your Uncle and Grandfather went down to Kings Landing and died." Her - friend? Companion? elaborates. "Your Father went down to Kings Landing and died. Your whole household, your sister… you are stronger then you think, Lady Sansa.” He says quietly, and his eyes shine in the early morning sun, and Sansa tries to stop the lump in her throat and the flush on her cheeks. “You are not weak.”

"It is very kind and courteous of you to say so." Sansa says slowly.

"I only speak the truth."

The smile she directs at him then is so very weary. "Then you are better then anyone I encountered down South."  

* * *

She falls back into goose feather pillows, curls spreading out around her like a halo. One bare leg wraps around his hip and drags down his lower back and he twitches. The brazier warms her whole tent, but she is sure Jon always makes her blood hot when he smiles at her secretly and touches her ever so delicately and Sansa fiercely hopes none of Jon's family have gone looking for him, or her Mother coming for her- She lets out a slightly hysterical laugh that makes Jon look up at her quizically. He is so very cute, hair sticking up every which way, and her stomach still trembles and rolls from where his lips trailed and nipped.  

"I am not laughing at you." She says, breath shallow and rattling in her throat. "Only - if someone were to walk in-"

"They would get a good show." His quiet laugh, his breath on her belly makes her quiver and she sighs lovingly.

There's a pleasant burning in her stomach, an ache between her thighs and he presses a noisy kiss onto her belly button that makes her shriek with equal surprise and laughter. Her laughter is swallowed up by his lips on hers once more, and she fumbles to undo the buttons on his shirt wanting to touch the muscles he is so proud of. She wants them to wrap tight around her so she can't escape, so nobody else can get to her, and she rolls the back of her heel on his hip again with lazy contentment.

"I love your words." She believes him to be mad when he takes a break from kissing her inner thigh, caressing the back of her knee with his thumb. 

"Pardon?" She says and her voice shakes and pitches and he smiles. She would hate to break his smile, it is so beautiful.

"I love your words." He repeats. "I love your smarts, I love the way your face lights up whenever you eat lemon cakes. I love the way you smile when you think no one is looking and I love how you bear no ill will to the people that harmed you even though everyone else would and I love you, Sansa Stark. Every part of you."

She sucks in a breath of air and nods, crystal teardrops dangling on her eyelashes. "Thank you." 

"If King Robb does exile me or worse... know that I was as committed as you. I would never lie to you." 

"I know." She whispers. "I trust you." She swallows thickly and a gentle smile graces her lips. "Shall I tell you why?"

"I never lie." SmallJon says confidently and her smile grows when his eyes sparkle, his thick hands entangling with hers and squeezing tight. She leans into him, pressing her cheek against his head, his hair soft against her skin. 

"No. Well - yes." She admits softly. "But it's because when I first said we should marry... you refused. Any other would have had no qualms of stealing me away."

"I'm not a wildling to take a woman without their will."  

His hand slips from hers, thumb rubbing across her swollen lips and she stares up at him wide-eyed, whole body alight with tension. Her lips seek his, and he is as cleansing as a winter storm, kisses like snowflakes on her burning skin.

* * *

She has found it; the one thing she has looked for so hard that would lead to disappointment. She can forgive his frozen fury when someone argues with him, the way his face goes stiff with a prominent scowl for he never directs that anger towards her - only to the men who dare to say something untoward about her, or Robb, or the Stark's cause in general. She has never seen him direct it towards women at all, only to other men who are foolish and disrespectful. But she cannot forgive him this; she is astounded that he would break her heart so. 

"You don't like lemon cakes?"

He grins at her shocked expression, the way she hoards the yellow cakes closer to her as if to give them comfort. One burly hand claps gently down on the tops of the deserts glittering with sugar and he licks the trace of lemon on his fingertips on his breeches. He would have swiped them across her lips she is sure- but he always remembers she is Princess despite him treating her as normal as possible.

"We seldom eat them up at Last Hearth." He confesses, rolling his shoulders back as he chuckles. "We prefer the wild berries that grow nearby." 

"But they're terribly bitter!"

"Not all of them." SmallJon counters as Sansa savours the sweet stickyness of the lemon in her mouth, thick down her throat. The taste clings inside her mouth for hours after, when she kisses him for the first time, lack of love of lemon cakes be damned.

(He didn't complain about the taste of lemon then, with her lips pressed against his, small body reaching up wavering on tip-toes, his hands warm around her waist.)

* * *

She is falling apart at the seams, and he is stitching her back up again with his kisses, his hands, his mouth, his whispered confessions and compliments. She rasps for breath, body slick with sweat and back arching against the thick furs that drape across her bed. He has done things that brought a rosy red to her cheeks and a weak splutter on her lips and he is sure to ask her if she wants this and she is sure,  _ohh_ she is. She thought laying with a man would not be pleasure and laughter and love - but then, she always expects the opposite from her Tall Jon. She curls into the crook of his arm, throughly exhausted and sated, and her heart still thrums, every nerve in her body atingle with the aftershocks. She wants him to ravish her again, for he promised the small pain she'd winced at when he first entered her would fade the next time, when he got used to her, and Sansa wants to be comfortable with him in every which way. Her chin burns from his stubble scraching her skin and she knows she'll have a rash patterned on her body, rough and red and hidden beneath her clothes.

They lay for a while unmoving, and Sansa's hands stroke his dark curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his breath is so hot on her breasts that if she were not so limpid and wrung out she would beg him to pleasure her again. There will be plenty more time for it, Sansa is sure. Even when SmallJon insists he brew moon tea for her until she's a few years older, it's practically a guarantee he wants to bed her again isn't it? She smiles languidly, bare flesh against his and she never thought people could fit together so completely before. She feels... complete now. She feels more closer to him then ever before, and she knows now, why Robb had to marry Jeyne after he took her maidenhead, how Mother fell in love with Father after their marriage.  

The sun is higher in the sky now, soldiers clattering around outside and soon Sansa will have to be up and dressed and SmallJon will need to report to Robb, bur for a few more minutes they laze in the company of each other completely at peace.

* * *

"I cannot marry a Frey." Sansa states.

"Sweetling," Her Mother is ever quick to reassure her, well-wrung hand creeping out to pat hers. "I know you did not desire this, but the Frey's are important allies. You're helping our family greatly. Even your Uncle Edmure is to marry a girl."

"Exactly." Sansa says practically. "There is already a marriage taking place. There is no need for I to commit myself to a Frey." 

"Edmure is only an Uncle to a King, you are his sister! You are so very special my love." Catelyn strokes her hair fondly. "We all know it, and so does Walder Frey. He has allowed you to pick any Frey you like! You can pick a man your own age, you'd like that wouldn't you.  _Or-_ " She lowers her voice. "A younger son will take a few years to mature so you needn't worry about bedding him right away." 

"I doubt Walder Frey would allow that." Sansa's great-Uncle Brynden arches an eyebrow in distaste. "He'll want a child with royal blood from the start." 

"I cannot marry a Frey." Sansa repeats, sucking in a deep breath for courage. "You do not listen to me, I cannot and will not for I am married to another." 

Her brother goes so still she fears him catatonic, and she looks to her Mother for assistance only to find her gaping wide-eyed.

"No." She says softly, cradling her head in her hands. "Gods not again-"

"Who?" Robb says coldly, pale lips pressed tight. "I'll castrate him gods be-"

"No you won't!" Sansa says sharply. "It was I that convinced him for I love him." 

"You thought to be in love with Joffrey!"

"Well I think you of all people know how good SmallJon Umber is to me." Sansa bites back and Robb blinks rapidly.

“ _SmallJon-”_

“We do not require your blessing brother, but it would be nice all the same.” She says quickly. “I only ask we be allowed to go back to Last Hearth. War does not agree with me.”

“You think it agrees with me?” Sansa is surprised his voice has turned soft. “Sansa-”

“I would say I am sorry Robb,” Her eyes pool with tears. “But I am not. Why are you allowed to break your betrothal, but I am to be married to a stranger? You should know yourself, everyone desires to marry for love.”

“Mother married for duty. I married for honour. Sansa we can-”

“We have already consummated it.” She declares. “So you cannot annul it. If you wish to exile us I will understand, just- please do not kill him Robb.” Her voice catches on a sob. “I could not bear anymore death.”

“Of course I won’t kill him.” He says gruffly. “He’s one of my best warriors, and you clearly love him... but Sansa the Frey's-"

"Let Walder Frey's offspring marry your and Jeyne's heirs. They can grow up together as children and come to love each other." She says pragmatically. "Or mine and SmallJon's own children, if he so desperately desires a person with Stark blood. But... surely he should fight for us anyway even without marriages. The Mormont's did not seek to marry you Robb, and leave when you refused." She sighs delicately, for her head was so full of politics and war and death and grief it was beginning to ache.

"The Frey's have always been prickly, love." Mother tidies her hair, stroking her cheek. "We shall just need to deal with whatever comes." 

"Send SmallJon in." Robb asks her, and she walks across to her brother and hugs him before he can react, stuffing her head into his warm chest. 

"I love you." She says, voice muffled. "Please understand Robb. I did it all for love, just love." 

He looks at her, so alike her and yet so different and he nods, running a hand through his thick curls.

* * *

"I escaped by the skin of my teeth." Jon tells her later. They're huddled in a hidden corner, his arms warm around her hips and she looks up at him with wide-eyes, lips parted in shock for she didn't mean him to be hurt-

"His wolf growled somewhat fiercely, and he said if I ever laid a hand on you he'd behead me just as he did Karstark, but we know I would never." He tilts her chin up. "Don't we?"

"Well, you laid your hands on me a lot this morning..." She trails off, batting her lashes and he yanks her forward so she's flat against him.

She tilts her head up to look at him, giggle slipping from her lips before he kisses her. She tugs him closer, craving his warmth. Tomorrow they set off back North to Last Hearth, back  _home,_ and she could not be happier. She thought her song was over, but she had gotten the lyrics and story all wrong and she sees it all clearly now before her - as clear as the view from a hill up North, and she cannot wait to meet her good-Mother and sisters, and see snow again, how she has missed snow!

"I love you, Sansa Stark." He whispers to her later, when they're curled up in each others arms and Sansa cannot tell where she ends and he begins. "I love you." 

It rings with sincerity.


End file.
